Sandman Read online

  Mike sipped his coffee. He wondered if these men knew anything about what had happened at the hospital that morning. Mike had gotten only a few hours sleep, but he felt refreshed and experienced a rush of excitement at the inspector’s words.

  He kept his face expressionless, though. “Voodoo? Black magic? Satanism? You believe in all that hoodoo, Inspector?”

  “Oh, quite, Chief. Any leads on who attacked the Kellys? And why?”

  Mike said nothing.

  Leo picked it up. “Gunfire at the hospital this morning. Your people kill anything?”

  “I could order you both out of my office and tell you to keep your noses out of department business, you know.”

  “Then why don’t you?” Leo met the chief’s eyes.

  “You got a jacket on me, Mr. Corigliano?” Mike looked at the folder in Leo’s hands.

  “Leo, please. Yes.”

  “May I see it?”

  Leo placed the folder on Mike’s desk and the chief quickly scanned it. He had to read only a few lines before he knew Leo had him pegged practically from the moment of birth. Quarter-breed Comanche had been highlighted.

  “My Indian heritage of some special interest to you, Leo?”

  “I don’t know. It might help.”

  Again, Mike grunted. “Maybe.” For a reason he could not fathom, Mike liked this odd-couple pairing of cops. And with gut instinct, he trusted them. “I’ve got a deputy friend who is Apache. He’s at the reservation now, meeting with medicine men.”

  “Wise move,” Stanford said. “If the creatures have gone one with the earth, the old men might know how to deal with that—if they’ll cooperate. Which I doubt.”

  Same phrase Pete used, Mike thought. And Pete had doubted that his people would be much help. “You gentlemen object to my recording this session?”

  “Not at all.” Leo spoke for both of them, after a quick glance at Stanford.

  Mike set up a cassette/corder and adjusted the mike. “Interviewing Inspector Willingston of the Bahamian Police and retired NYPD lieutenant Leo Corigliano. This is in connection with the rape and death of Dottie Cauldman and the rape and aging of her daughter, Jenny Cauldman. It is also in connection with—”

  There was a knock and the door opened abruptly. “Chief.” A uniformed sergeant stuck his head in. “Sorry to bother you, but the lab just sent us the blow-ups of those pictures Mrs. Kelly took.”

  He handed Mike a large envelope and left, closing the door behind him.

  Mike carefully opened the envelope and looked at the eight by tens. His face paled.

  “Damn!” he said softly.

  “Sand people?” Stanford guessed.

  Mike cut off the recorder. “Yeah.” He handed the pictures to Stanford.

  “They are as awesome as rumor made them out to be,” the inspector said. He handed the pictures to Leo.

  “Jesus Christ!” Leo muttered. He appeared to be shaken. He shook his head and returned the pictures to the chief.

  Stanford pointed to the recorder. “Would you please reactivate that machine, Chief.”

  Mike cut the recorder back on.

  Stanford said, “I have taken the liberty of calling my offices and requesting that they send some samples of blood from a recent double murder on the island. One of the murder victims was Leo’s sister.”

  That answers one question, Mike thought. Maybe two. He glanced at Leo. “I’m sorry.”

  Leo nodded in reply.

  Mike turned his gaze on the inspector. “You think the ... sand people committed the murders on your island?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “The same ones? How’d they get to Tepehuanes, for Christ’s sake!”

  “I think, Chief, they can grow out of a very small pile of sand. I believe they were brought here in someone’s luggage.”

  “They ... grow.”

  “That is correct. And, according to legend, they cannot exist without blood. I would like to see if the blood you found at the Kelly house matches the samples my people took from the cottage where the double murders occurred.”

  “How do you know I found any blood samples at the Kelly house?”

  “Oh, come, come, Chief! Let’s stop all this pussyfooting about in the lilies, for heaven’s sake. You’ve got a problem on your hands and we can help. Besides,” he pointed to the envelope containing the pictures, “one of the sand creatures is blown in two and the other one is missing an arm. Of course, you have blood samples. The creatures cannot exist without blood.”

  Mike thought of Glen Holland. “Is the blood contaminated?”

  “We think so. According to legend, it is highly toxic; has a life of its own. But once exposed to air, the sand dies within hours unless it finds fresh blood.” We think. He kept that to himself for the moment. Stanford cut the air with an impatient slash of one hand. “The sand people can be contained. That is not your problem, Chief.”

  “It isn’t? You could have fooled me, Inspector!”

  “No. Your problem is that a child of Satan is controlling the actions of the sand creatures. As long as the child is alive, the sand people will continue to multiply and kill on command.”

  Mike stared at the inspector. Blinked a couple of times.

  “Kill a kid?” he finally managed to say.

  “Yes,” Stanford said, his voice devoid of emotion. “And we must find Louis Mantine and his wife Nicole, in human form, and destroy them. Again. Do it right this time. Burn them and seal the ashes.”

  Mike became agitated. “Who the hell are Louis and Nicole Mantine. And what do you mean, destroy them again!”

  “They’ve been killed at least twice, Chief.”

  “That is impossible!”

  “Calm yourself. Nothing is impossible when one is dealing with the devil.”

  “The devil!” Mike shouted.

  His intercom buzzed. “Everything all right in there, Chief?”

  “Yeah. No. I suppose so.” He cut off the intercom.

  Stanford said, “Louis and Nicole Mantine. Voodoo priest and priestess. They found the devil-child on the island and brought his true father to him. You’ll understand as we go along.”

  “Well, I don’t so far.” He snapped his fingers. “Devil-child. Oh, no, Inspector. Tell me it isn’t true. You’re the man I spoke with a few weeks ago?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Yeah. Now I remember. You wanted a background check on the Kelly family. Sure,” he said softly.

  “You beginning to get a clearer picture, Chief Bambridge?”

  “Some pieces are coming together, yeah. Paul Kelly?”

  “Yes.”

  “We think,” Leo added.

  “The Cauldman girl and her mother were raped by a grown man. Or a grown something. Paul Kelly is just a child.”

  “What do you mean a grown something?” Stanford asked.

  Mike explained about the scales.

  Stanford thought about that for a moment. “He might be a shape-changer. Either that or he’s summoned help from his father.”

  “His father?” Mike said. “Mark?”

  “No. Satan.”

  Mike put his head in his hands and sighed.

  “What the hell is a shape-changer?” Leo asked, before Mike could.

  “A creature who has the ability to change or shift shapes,” Stanford replied.

  Leo looked exasperated. “Stanford! Give me a break. You might be used to dealing with these things, but I’m not.”

  “Count me in as one of the ‘nots,’” Mike said.

  “Actually, it is exactly what I said. A creature who has the ability to assume the shape of something else—human or animal.”

  Mike sighed. “So ... and this is assuming I’m buying any of this ... Paul could have changed his form before he raped the mother and daughter, right?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Changed it into what? We found reptile scales that don’t match up with those of any known creature, alive o
r extinct.”

  “He might have changed into a demon.”

  “A”—once again, Mike sighed—“demon.”

  “To be sure!” Stanford said cheerfully. “Or perhaps the boy has a brother.”

  “No. He has a sister,” Mike explained. “Janis. Good kid. Pretty.”

  Stanford brushed that away. “No, no, no. A brother from the Dark Side.”

  By now, Leo was looking at the inspector as oddly as Mike was.

  “The dark side of ... what?” Mike asked.

  “Hell.”

  Leo said, “Mike, I know it’s early, but do you have a bottle in your office?”

  “I sure do!” Bambridge opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. He found three cups, then looked at Stanford. “You want a slug?”

  “Oh, surely. I’m on vacation. I can be a bit naughty and not feel guilty about drinking this early in the day.”

  The bourbon poured, Mike leaned back in his chair.

  Stanford took a small sip and smiled. “Yes. Yes, the more I think about it, the more I’m inclined to believe Paul might have a brother; an alter shape. Mantine would have the power to pull him here. I sensed the boy was evil when I looked at him on the island. But I warn you both: This will be the most difficult case you have ever worked on. Take it from me. I’ve been working on one like it for fifteen years.”

  Mike looked puzzled.

  Leo cleared that up. “Mantine was responsible for the death of Stanford’s wife.”

  “In a way,” the inspector said softly.

  Mike drained his cup. “Boys, this is getting to be a bit much for a country lawman like me.”

  Both Leo and Stanford had noted the efficiency of his office, the high morale of his men, and the high-tech equipment. Neither man believed Mike Bambridge was a good ol’ boy or a country lawman.

  “Those photos should have convinced you of something, Mike,” Stanford said.

  “Oh, I’m not disputing your word or denying anything you’ve said, Inspector. It’s . . . well, my mind is having a hard time accepting it, that’s all.”

  “Ignorance and skepticism have killed many a person, Chief. From this point on, take nothing for granted, be suspicious of everything. For if Mantine wishes it so, nothing will be as it seems. And the boy will be growing stronger and stronger each day. Bear in mind that he is not human.”

  Mike lifted his eyes and stared at Stanford for a moment. “How do you kill something, someone, who is already dead?”

  “Simple. Catch him in his human form and make the first shot count.”

  “A silver bullet?” There was only a touch of sarcasm in the man’s voice.

  Stanford chuckled. “No. Nothing that dramatic. Just a blessed bullet.”

  “You have one?” Leo asked.

  “I brought a box of them.”

  “Fifty?”

  Stanford smiled. “Marksmanship never was one of my strong suits.”

  Mike stood up. “You’ve leveled with me; I might as well level with you. You people seem to know a lot more than I do about what we’re after.”

  “It won’t take you long to learn, Chief,” Stanford told him. “You’ll either do that, or die.”

  * * *

  When it came to introductions, Mike simply introduced the men as Stanford and Leo, and he said they were assisting in the investigation.

  The doctors gave them some odd glances, but said nothing.

  On the tour of the hospital, Stanford almost ran into Janis and her mother, there to see Mark. The inspector winked at the girl and held a finger to his lips.

  Janis grinned and returned the wink, screwing up the entire side of her face. Then she nodded her head.

  No one noticed the exchange.

  Dr. Fletcher and Dr. Clineman showed Glen Holland to the men. Glen’s head had been bandaged, as had his chest wounds.

  “I don’t understand what’s keeping him alive,” Mary Beth wondered aloud.

  Stanford’s only response was a grunt.

  Holland’s legs were covered with what appeared to be hundreds of savage insect bites.

  Actually the living sand had entered his body through these small wounds.

  Carleson’s only red marks were on his arm. The man was busy and happy in his room.

  Playing jacks.

  “How much do they know?” Stanford asked, indicating the doctors.

  Mike’s eyes sought his. “You mean about last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nothing.”

  The inspector frowned. “It’s time for the truth, Chief Bambridge. There is no point in maintaining a pretense now.”

  The group had been joined by other medical personnel.

  “You spoke of skeptics, Inspector?” Mike jerked his thumb toward the doctors.

  “Inspector?” Mary Beth looked up. “I can tell you’re British by your accent. Are you from Scotland Yard?”

  Stanford drew himself up to his full six feet, four inches and bristled. “Scotland Yard, madam, is not the only law enforcement organization in the world. To answer your question, no! I am not from the Yard.”

  “Well, excuse me!” Mary Beth retorted sharply. She looked at Leo. “And you?”

  “I’m from New York.”

  “What’s going on, Mike?” Clineman asked. “Now, damn it, man, we’ve got something loose in this hospital—this community. If you can shed some light on it, we must know what it is.”

  Mike visually passed the buck to Stanford. The inspector pointed to the rear of the hospital. “That man you have housed in the trailer . . . he must be destroyed.”

  The doctors all started talking at once, angrily. Stanford stood calmly, waiting for the hubbub to fade away.

  “What do you mean?” Dr. Slater finally demanded.

  “Dr. Carleson’s minor . . . infirmity will pass. Give him twenty-four hours, and he’ll be fine. I’ve seen several dozen cases like his over the years. But you are faced with a real medical and ethical problem with Holland.”

  The doctors remained silent. Each knew there was absolutely no hope for Glen Holland, yet none of them had ever seen anything like what had happened to the orderly.

  “I know you’re all frustrated and baffled by what has happened,” Stanford began. “I’ve been frustrated by this very thing for years. But think for a moment. That young man, Holland, is beyond help. His vital organs are shattered. His brain is dead. He’s straight-lining, and you all know it. He has literally been eaten alive by living sand. Now why isn’t he dead? Oh, he is. But worse, his soul is lost.”

  “This is ridiculous!” Dr. Thomas said. But there was uncertainty in his voice. “I don’t profess to know what’s happened, but I doubt the Devil had anything to do with it.”

  “Who said the Devil did?” Leo asked softly. “None of us did, so that means you must have thought about that before we arrived.”

  The doctor’s face flushed. But he kept his mouth closed.

  “Are you going to tell us the . . . Devil had something to do with Jenny Cauldman?” Clineman broke the silence.

  “Oh, yes. Quite. She was probably frightened so badly she lost her mind.”

  “And aged?” Slater’s tone was scornful.

  “No, that was done deliberately. I’ve been giving that some thought. Was the girl quite pretty?”

  “Very. Beautiful, I’d say,” Mary Beth told him.

  “The boy’s alter shape would not be human. It could not take human form. Only the boy can change shapes. The alter-shape would be hideous to look at. That’s probably your answer.”

  The doctors were rolling their eyes; some were smiling, openly contemptuous.

  Stanford ignored them, as best he could. He turned to Carleson, who was busy playing jacks. “Treat the doctor with antiseptic, on his arm. Not enough entered his system to do him any lasting harm.”

  “Not enough what, Inspector?” Mary Beth asked.

  But she knew.

  Sand.

  “Oh, the man i
s a crackpot!” Slater stated. He glared at Stanford. “Just who do you think you are?”

  The inspector withered him with a frosty look. “Young man, I have tolerated just about all of your snippiness I can for one session. Suffice it to say, you may be able to lance a boil or remove a wart, but you do not know what this community is facing. It may be difficult for you to comprehend, but there are matters that fall far outside the range and scope of medical science. I’m sure your Maker will take your arrogance and stupidity into consideration on Judgment Day.”

  Leo smiled.

  Mike chose that time to step in and cool the situation. “Is there some sort of private conference room here in the hospital?”

  “Of course.” There was a note of relief in Clineman’s voice. He had expected the inspector to retaliate further against Dr. Slater. “Yes, I think that would be wise. It isn’t very professional of us to be standing out in the hall and arguing. Please, let’s all just settle down and listen to what Inspector . . . ah ... ?” He looked at Stanford.

  “Willingston. You may call me Stanford.” The inspector turned to Slater. “You may not.”

  Flushing with anger, Slater said, “If what you suggest will help the patients, I’m for it.”

  They adjoined to a conference room, and coffee and soft drinks were sent in. As Stanford began to speak, he was very aware of the hostility in the eyes of about half of those present. This time, he did not allow that to upset him.

  He would save the pictures until last. After that, it would be up to the doubters as to whether they lived or died. They would have to be shown the power of Mantine, of Paul the shape-changer and his alter form, and of the sand creatures.

  Stanford concluded with: “Keep an open mind until this evening, when the blood samples from Dean and Donna Mansfield arrive and can be matched with the blood Dr. Carleson took from the sand found in and around the Kelly house.”

  “And not a word of this leaves this conference room,” Mike told them. “If I have to do it, I can get a judge to sign a gag order on you all.”

  “You really think there is something to all this talk of voodoo, Chief?” Clineman asked.

  “The pictures, Mike,” Leo suggested.

  Mike tossed the envelope onto the table.

  The doctors looked. And looked again. They stared in undisguised horror and disbelief at the blown-apart sandman, the torso going one way, the legs and lower part another.